The Side of the Angels
by Chrissy Truman
Summary: There's a new tenant in 221C Baker Street, or at least someone wants it to look that way. The Doctor is only trying to do what he thinks is best for the timeline, and Arthur Conan Doyle steals a few words, and some names from a pair of arguing men across the street. Read and Review.


**The Side of the Angels**

**Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, especially one specific quote that I'm sure we're all quite familiar switch at this point.**

**AN: Because everyone loves to mess with the possibilities of 221C. I heard a theory and thought it was perfect. This short, and my first attempt at a Sherlock fanfic, let alone my first attempt at Wholock. Reviews are craved.**

"Mrs. Hudson's happy," John commented shrugging his jacket off at the door.

"It appears she's gotten someone to lease 221C, a sculptor by the look of it," Sherlock drawled with cocked eyebrow determinedly heading up the stairs.

"How?"

"Look at the floor, something heavy has been dragged across it recently, those scrapes there. Look at the door handle. Take a whiff of the air. Smell like a celebratory herbal soother to you? This one is desperately easy, John, even for you."

"Yes, Sherlock I believe we established my knowledge of her celebration as we entered the door. Yes, I see the scrapes and the drying clay on the door handle. I get it. Now either get out of the way or go upstairs because I need tea," John sighed glaring at Sherlock.  
Sherlock smirked at him in return, and proceeded up the staircase, careful to keep his face out of John's line of sight.

Something was wrong. John didn't need to know that yet but something was definitely wrong. The deduction _had_ been desperately easy, such that it seemed as if someone wanted them to think that a sculptor had moved in, on purpose. Mrs. Hudson also hadn't made her customary hello, called through her door when they had returned. It was all perfect and yet ever so slightly wrong.

Sherlock flopped onto the couch and steepled his fingers as John went into the kitchen to make tea. Mrs. Hudson, her lack of greeting could have been caused by several factors, that had absolutely nothing suspicious about them. But then, again...

"John?" he called, his voice catching just slightly in an upwards spiral.

"What?" John asked poking his head into the living room tea in hand, brow furrowed.

Sherlock felt like the hair was raising on the back of his neck, goose bumps were rolling over his skin. He'd never had this kind of reaction to anything before. He was calm, he was in control.

"I think it might be best if we check on Mrs. Hudson," he said slowly. John's frown increases further.

"Really?"

"Yes," Sherlock hissed leaping to his feet. "Right now."

He had the unnerving feeling of being watched, and he didn't like it, not one bit. It was not quite as bad as the Hounds of Baskerville but it was steadily getting closer.

He dragged John out of the flat and down the stairs, ignoring John's indignant shouts and his swearing over the tea that had been spilt all over his jumper.

Mrs. Hudson's door opened on the first knock, and that was when John stopped muttering angrily and grew very still.

"My gun is upstairs," John whispered.

"No one is in her flat," Sherlock deduced, pushing the door open all the way, and taking stock of the room. It looked normal, completely undisturbed. The only oddity happened to be the herbal soother perched ever so carefully on the edge of the counter as it smoked away.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" John demanded as he scanned the room, eyes flitting nervously over every hiding place, or dark corner. Sherlock shook his head and pinched out the cigarette. "Moriarty?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock ground out. He didn't know, and it was driving him insane. What would be the purpose in this? Faking someone had moved into 221 C and then taking Mrs. Hudson. And why a sculptor? Why? He was so caught up in his train of thought he didn't realize John had left his side up until he heard a yelp of surprise come from the main entry.

He darted out of the flat, and nearly stumbled backwards confronted with the same obstacle as John.

There was a statue standing a few feet in front of the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat. It was an angel, elegantly designed, with its hands covering its face as though in shame, or as if it were crying. But, there was nothing about the statue that suggested when it had been made, what type of person the sculptor was, nothing. It was completely blank. No deductions to made off it, except that it had to be terribly wrong.

"John," Sherlock said carefully. "Get away from it. Just move out towards the door, and don't take your eyes off of it."

John's eye flickered to Sherlock's the worry, and confusion plastered to his face. The hair on Sherlock's neck felt as if it was vibrating.

"Sherlock, I know you said not to look away but... there's one on top of the stairs," John's voice while decidedly firm, shook slightly with nerves. How could someone have gotten a statue up there so quickly, and so quietly? Unless, maybe, it was hollow. Sherlock resisted the urge to look away from the current statue to one on the stairs.

"Sherlock..." John's voice trailed off and Sherlock glanced away to see an angel statue standing right in front of John, arms raised with clawed nails. He quickly directed his eyes back to his own statue, which had somehow managed to lower it's hands. A dozen different theories spun through his head.

"John, don't blink."

"What?"

And John, being the foolish man that he was, turned to look at Sherlock.

"No!"

John was gone in an instant, the angel now occupying the space where he had been just moments ago. And he wasn't looking at his angel which meant... He closed his eyes slowly, as something cold enveloped him, and the world spun around him.

Somewhere a long way off a skinny man with unnecessary glasses was sitting on the floor of a Police Public Call Box, his legs dangly out the front door, and beneath him the Earth turned.

"That was the right thing to do, wasn't it?" he asked the box quietly, leaning on the its side as if it could provide some comfort. "I mean Sherlock Holmes wasn't meant to be in the twenty-first century. None of them were. It's a fixed point, right?"

The Doctor slumped further down the side of the TARDIS the guilt caving in on him. He had helped the Lonely Assassins. He hadn't intended for it to go down as it had. He wanted to ease them into it, but he should have known that Sherlock would too quick to figure it out, and the Angels too eager.

"What if I was wrong?"

The TARDIS whirred comfortingly underneath him. No matter what the reality Sherlock Holmes belonged in the 1800s. That was how it was. Or maybe it was only that way because he'd messed with things. He banged his head against the door unforgivingly.

"Oi."

The Doctor glanced over his shoulder to see Donna glaring at him.

"I signed on to see the universe, not to be a bloody therapist," she snapped. "Which," and her voice softened subtly, "it looks like you could use at the moment. What's got you banging your head Martian man?"

"Nothing," he said abruptly, jumping up from his position to face her. "And you won't be seeing too much of the universe if you keep insisting on referring to me as a Martian." A cheeky grin took over his face.

"Right," Donna said smiling at him in return, but the concern not quite leaving her eyes.

"Where to?"

**London, England 1886**

"You're joking," John said determinedly.

"I don't joke, and you can obviously see I'm not," Sherlock replied extending his hand in a sweeping gesture to the city that lay before them.

"But this is insane!" he exclaimed throwing his hands in the air and pacing over the cobbles.

"My conclusion remains. How many times must I tell you John? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

A man had paused as he was walking to stare at the strangely dressed men arguing across the street, and the taller one's latest remark rang out to him, churning in his brain.

"...whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

He fumbled in his pockets for the small notebook he carried with him and the stub of a pencil.

"Sherlock!" the shorter man cried indignantly as the taller began sweeping off down the street, his long black coat billowing about behind him.

"Come a long John, if my suspicions are correct we may be able to find Mrs. Hudson."

He watched the two men disappear around a street corner, and his eyes darted back down to his notebook.

Sherlock Holmes  
John Watson

The page was filled with notes he hadn't been conscious of writing.

"...however improbable..."

He needed a type writer, he couldn't remember where he'd been going anymore, all he knew was there were ideas spinning in his head like wildfire. He turned back the way he had come, and dashed back home. Quite un-gentalman-ly of him he thought, but this was more important, this was huge, he could taste it: Sherlock Holmes, the great detective.

Fin


End file.
